


Mo the Codfish

by noseriouslythisis



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: 2017 Stanley Cup Playoffs, Background Relationships, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pining, Stickhandling 101
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-13
Updated: 2017-05-13
Packaged: 2018-10-31 10:48:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10897782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/noseriouslythisis/pseuds/noseriouslythisis
Summary: Mo is soft, and oblivious, and he kind of likes Jake a lot. Not that he noticed.





	Mo the Codfish

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to my lovely beta R F1DEL1US  who encouraged me and helped me brainstorm and wrangle my tenses.  
> Also thank you to the leafs gc who enabled my love for hockey and the leafs and won't let me go now. 
> 
> And now, without further ado, have some soft Mo/Jake that is really fluffy, I promise, even if it's bitter sweet at times.

Quiet. It was so, so quiet in the locker room. Mo could still hear Babs’ post-game dress down ringing in his ears. Sighing, he dragged his hand over his face and stood up, still half way in his pads. “Hey, listen up!” The room turned towards him, resigned faces staring up, no one quite meeting his gaze. Sometimes, Mo hated being the de facto captain. “This game was a shit show. I won’t repeat Babs here. But we're still in it. We can still make the playoffs. Go home, get rest, hug someone, get some sleep. We still have Columbus. One more game. And we _will_ be better. We know we can be.” That, at least, brought the volume in the room up from morgue-like to a quiet chatter. He noticed that some guys had switched places, sticking close to each other. Good. The rookie cluster was quietly changing under Marty´s protective glances. There was probably a puppy pile in his near future. Brownie was sitting next to Freddie, already fully dressed, helping the goalie out of his pads with quiet determination. Freddie reached up, and Mo turned away. He couldn’t shake the feeling that he had observed something private, even though they were in a room full of people. All the vets were mostly on their way out, nodding towards him before leaving.

Turning around, Mo’s gaze fell on Gards. He… still hadn’t moved. He was sitting in the exact same position as when Mo had last checked on him. Still completely in his game dress, skates and all, with only his gloves and helmet removed. He was hunched over in his stall, arms propped up on his legs, staring blankly at the wall. His hair was sticking up in all directions.

Mo’s fingers itched. Slowly, trying not to spook him, he approached his best friend. He needn't have bothered: Gards didn’t even seem to notice him. Wordless, Mo reached for him. Still moving so, so slowly, he tipped Gards’ face up to look him in the eye. Blankness, interwoven with despair, stared back at him. Forcing himself not to look away, as hard as it was in the face of such utter sadness, Mo moved his hand into Gards hair, combing through slowly. Even matted with sweat, it was so soft. And there it was. Movement.

His friend turning in his grasp, leaning into the touch. The relief hit Mo more than the exhaustion did. Encouraged, he took a page out of Brownie’s book and knelt next to Jake who made a small sound at the loss of his hand. He unlaced the skates, removing them carefully, and urged Gards to stand so he could take off his jersey. While he was unbuckling the pads he caught Naz looking at them, observing. He shook his head at the smirk and turned back to his task. Naz and his gossip could wait. Besides, he was just helping his friend out. Not like he was the only one. Once Gards was only in his underarmor he gave him a friendly swat and sent him to the showers. Even helping a buddy out had its limits.

 

\-----

 

On the way home, Mo drove. Jake still hadn’t said a word. In the apartment he herded him onto the sofa, tucked a blanket around him, quietly delighted at the grumble he got for his troubles, and made some tea just the way Jake secretly liked best, not that he would admit it: Strong, black, with lots of milk, tooth achingly sweet and a sprinkle of cinnamon, the weirdo. Mugs in hand, Mo settled next to Gards, pressing the tea into his hands and snuggling up under the blanket with him. And then, they were quiet for a bit longer, sipping until all was gone and Jake slid down the couch to rest his head in Mo´s lap. His hair being stroked once again, he finally, finally spoke. “I fucked up. Mo, I fucked up, I cost us the game, I…” His voice was hoarse, uneven, his breath hitching as if he was about to cry – or hyperventilate. “Shhhh, you did not. That goal was a fluke. If the rest of us had done our job well, that wouldn’t have mattered. We all played like shit. Every one of us. Well, not Freddie maybe. But he´s always the best of us.” Gards looked unconvinced, but his breath evened out again. He was crying a bit, just tears rolling down his cheeks, but that could have just been the exhaustion. The tiredness, that bone deep hurt, always hit harder when they lost. Mo had meant what he said: They were going to crush Columbus. For that, they would need proper rest, however. So he nudged Jake up, taking him by the hand and leading him into his own bedroom. It would not do to let him out of sight in the state he was in. Everyone always thought Mo would be the one needing more comfort, even the team, but they were all wrong. Jake was so tactile. He didn’t like to show it, but Mo had figured him out a long, long time ago, back in his rookie year when he first moved in. And so, he always made sure to make the hugs he gave Jake linger a little longer. Cuddle with him in the sanctuary of their condo. Ruffle his hair when the others couldn’t see and chirp. Plus, it always felt so nice, and made Mo all warm inside, and Jake always got that pleased little smile, so.

When they crawled into bed, they curled up into each other, Mo being the bigger spoon for once, and they fell, fell, fell into blessed sleep.

The next morning, Jake was lighter. He had found some of his determination and was actually up before Mo, making breakfast and driving them to practice. The rest of the team was already scattered around the room in various stages of undress, not quite carefree but definitely in a better mood than last night. Naz was still smirking, but whatever. Mo could see Freddie glancing over, noting the lack of space between them. Mo just shrugged. He had absolutely no intention of straying far from Jake, not when he was almost back to normal again. He felt like he got away with something when Freddie turned his gaze away, focusing on… whatever goalies focused on. He seemed to have a ritual with Brownie where they stared at each other for no apparent reason, so, case in point. Goalies were weird.

Practice went much better. That night, they slept in the same bed again, and Mo felt a kiss being pressed into his hair. He smiled, turning into it, and his last thought was _I could get used to this._

The game was _electric_ . They played, and played, and Freddie was a fucking brick wall, like he always was, and Jake was like magic, the kind you just couldn’t help but turn to. And then, they won. They beat them. _They made the playoffs._ The joy and relief crashed into Mo like his teammates did into him and each other. They actually made it. No matter that they would have to go up against Washington, in this moment they felt invincible. There was a permanent grin on all their faces, and the room was a cacophony of noise and elation, the polar opposite of two nights ago. Mo thought he saw two blond heads way too close to each other, but whatever. They made the playoffs, a bit of friendly kissing was to be expected. He felt a pang in his chest, but he forgot all about it when he got an armful of Jake a minute later. “We’re in, Mo! We did it, we’re in!” Yeah, they were. They really, really were. Mo ignored the inexplicable longing he felt, and clung on.

 

\-----

 

Game One. Game one, and it felt like the first time ever in the playoffs. And for most of them, it was. Even them, the core of vets, they only had had 2013, a season that didn’t count, really. A farce of a season, half the games played, and Mo, he turned to his team and looked at them, one by one by one. Oh, how he loved them, every single one of them. Boyler had the most playoff experience by far, but Freddie had gone far before, too. It was reassuring, to know that their personal brick wall knew what he was doing. Mo forgot sometimes, that Freddie was older than them. That he had played in Anaheim for quite some time before coming here, to Toronto, becoming theirs. He had played against him, he knows he has, but it had been so few times. Then, Mo had to smile: He remembered the beard issue. There were bets all around, from the team to Babs to the doormen, on who would have the best one, whether Mitch´s would even be visible, whether anyone could beat Naz. Naz, who could grow a better beard by five in the afternoon than some of them could in two weeks. Mo got lost in thoughts of summer, skype conversations with Jake, all suntanned and a faint shadow on his jaw, practically glowing. Shaking his head, he focused back on the present. Game One, Game One, Game One. And then they were off. It was fast. Fast and hard and chippy, but they held their own. One goal, then two, and its Gards, wonderful, wonderful Gards, who put it past Holtby, unassisted, and he’s so, so happy. But god, is it fighty. Hits are flying left and right, even Freddie getting mixed up in it (their quiet, quiet goalie, who sometimes shows glimmers of his angry past that he rarely talks about) when he levels Niskanen behind his own net, with purpose, and really more force than necessary in immediate retaliation to the hit that had sent Brownie sprawling on the ice. But then, then, it all turned around, and they couldn’t help their goalie stop Williams, and they go to OT. But: they played well, they forced the best team in the regular season to go to Overtime. Take that, hockey media. In the end, it almost doesn’t matter that they lost the game. They were gonna get the next one. And smash them.  
  
Even though it was a loss, the locker room didn’t feel like it. Sure, it was not exactly a party, but the mood was light, the focus already on game two. Everyone was busy with their rituals, the rookies clustered around Marty as always, the Scandinavian connection all over each other as usual, Freddie and Brownie staring at each other, and Jake sitting next to him once he finished changing, waiting for Mo to be ready to go down to the bus. Mac clapped Mo on the shoulder on his way out, nodding in the direction of the other goalie. “Bit more charged tonight than usual, eh?” And with that, he was out. Mo watched him go, confused. Had he missed something? Sure, Brownie´s eyes matched his hair in intensity, but they had just played a game. Lots of guys got a bit riled up after a good performance. Huh. “Ready?” _Jake_. Mo nodded and followed him out. They all piled into the bus, one by one, half falling asleep, and ate together in the hotel before dragging themselves into their rooms. Mo and Jake didn’t have to share a room on the road anymore, that honour now being bestowed on the rookies, but that usually all got changed up underhand. The wonder twins shared, Auston often wound up happily having his room to himself, and Brownie crashed…Mo didn’t actually know. Somewhere. It was strange, not sharing anymore, even though they had had a few seasons to get used to it. In the end, they did what they usually did: They just both crashed in Jake’s bed. They did it at home often enough, and most times on the road. Neither of them really liked being alone, so it suited them well. It was…nice. They watched some Netflix to wind down, as usual, and settled in for a good night’s rest. In the dark, Mo couldn’t help but turn to look at Jake, eyes tracing over facial features he could barely see but had memorized in such detail it almost didn’t matter. “Sleep, Mo.” It came out as a whisper, mumbled through a haze of tiredness. Jake was so soft like this, all warm and slow when he reached out to pull Mo closer. With a sigh, Mo burrowed into Gards’ arms, and obeyed.

 

\-----

 

Practice was uneventful. It was the usual, really, maybe a bit more fired up than the ones in regular season, everyone dialled in at 100 percent. The only upset happened when Brownie took off his shirt and promptly got chirped for the distinctly finger shaped bruises on his hips. He had been one of the first to arrive, already in pads by the time the rest of them turned up, and so only had to deal with the reactions now. Mo had no idea when and how Brownie had had the time to hook up after the game, but that was none of his business, really. He could see some money change hands though. He elbowed Bozie, resident bookie and usually up to date on all bets. “Hey, what’s that for?” The look he got for his troubles was a mix of incredulous and amused. “After that hit? Come on, Mo.” Helpful as usual. Suddenly the chirping and the whistles tripled in volume. Clearly he had missed something here. Mo followed his teammates gazes, leading him to Freddie of all people. He could not imagine what their stoic goalie could have possibly done to deserve such – and then Freddie turned, and Mo almost choked on air. There were slightly raised scratches all over Freddie´s back. Not deep, he would never allow himself to be hurt before a game, but distinct nonetheless. Fresh looking, long gauges in sets of four. Clearly Mo had to pay more attention, how had he missed two of his teammates hooking up? On the same night no less. He idly wondered what the chances of both gingers picking up at the same time were before focusing back on the room. There was even more money being exchanged now. “How did they even manage that?” he asked Bozie, who was still sitting next to him, albeit busy counting bills now. “Manage what?” Exasperated, Mo gestured to the room. “Picking up after the game, on the same night, in Washington” Another blank stare. Then, Bozie started laughing. Mo couldn’t see what was so funny. “Have you really still not figured it out?” Mo started shaking his head when he saw Brownie was calmly making his way across the room, mostly dressed now in Jeans and a T-shirt, and stopped in front of Freddie who calmly pulled him onto his lap, barely sparing the now hollering room a glance before murmuring something into Brownies ear, pressing a kiss to his neck, and then pushing him off again, accepting a kiss to the cheek and giving Brownie a playful slap to the thigh, who then went on his way.

Mo was brought back out of his baffled stupor by Jake, Jake, wonderful Jake, who gave him a tap on his jaw and said “Close your mouth, Morgan, we are not a codfish.” Dimly, Mo remembered they had watched Mary Poppins again a few days ago. “What just happened?” Jake laughed, giving him his _Oh, Morgan_ look and ruffled his hair. “That, babe, was our starting goalie staking his territory.” In the corner of his eye Mo could see said goalie looking at him, eyebrows raised judgmentally (for his slowness, and in challenge, presumably, but somehow Mo got the impression there was something else going there) and also Naz who was snickering and mouthing _Babe_ at Mo. He flushed without quite knowing why. 

Once they were all dressed and about to disperse for lunch Freddie cornered him at the door. Gulping, Mo shifted back a little. Before he could say anything, his goalie fixed him with a stern look, and told him “Don’t be dumb, Captain, make a move” and left. Just like that. By the time Mo had collected his wits enough to call after him to correct him and ask him what he meant, Freddie was already on his way out, arm slung over Brownies shoulders, only turning back to give him another one of his judgemental stares, and walked out. Okay then.  
“Did you know about this?” Mo asked Jake over a plate of pasta later. Gards laughed, again (and seriously, Mo knew he wasn’t always the brightest, but there had been too many people who laughed at him today for being slow) and set in to explain, gently, that Freddie had been dating Brownie for a while, goalie wooing rituals and all. In his mind, Mo imagined a puck being sincerely presented, but apparently when he wasn’t looking there had been flowers and Danish poetry or something. He got a bit fuzzy on the details, distracted by the sparks in Gards eyes as he told his tale, gesticulating all the while. It _did_ explain the coffee he could remember Brownie always sipping before morning practices, left in his stall at the beginning of the season and later already in his hand when he strolled in. _Huh_. Maybe he had miscalculated with the goalie stares. He shivered at the thought of such single minded focus being directed at him and dragged his eyes up from where they had been resting (Gards’ neck. It was a very nice neck.) “Hey, Jake. Freddie told me to not be dumb and make a move, do you know what that was about?” There was a flash of pain in Gards’ face before his expression smoothed out again. “You’ll have to ask him.” There was tension now in his shoulders. Mo frowned. Had he missed something else? It didn’t seem a good idea to press, though, so he just flagged the waiter for the bill and changed the subject.

That night, Gards was a bit cagey before bed, not melting into the mattress as usual, leaving way too much space between them. Mo didn’t like this. Not at all. Slowly, he moved closer, oddly reminded of the way Gards had been after the Penguins game. It took a while, but eventually, he had a soft and pliant Jake in his arms again, but there was still a small undercurrent of tension in his spine when Mo dropped off into sleep, his nose buried in Gards’ hair. He would have to talk to Freddie tomorrow.

 

\----

 

That talk would have to be postponed. Game two was a grind. Mo knew, rationally, that he could not hear the crack Romans leg made, but it felt like he could. It was ugly, to see a teammate in such obvious pain. They would not get him back this season, he knew. Mo felt cold. It had been clean, he knew, he knew, he knew, but he still felt the blood drain out of his face. He felt sick. The only thing tethering him now was Jake’s hand on his knee, a solid presence, and Mo gratefully leaned against him for a bit.

For all intents and purposes, they played the rest of the game with four D, Connor barely leaving the bench. Near the end Mo felt like he had lead in his skates, but then, then, Kappy slapped in a beauty past Holtby, his second of the game, and Mo could have kissed him. They all swarmed around him, screaming at each other: _They had tied it up_ . Home ice advantage no more, the Caps would have to fight to regain the tenuous control they had held with the 1:0.  
As it turned out, Mo wouldn’t have to kiss Kappy after all, Willy had that one covered. (Mo was seriously considering getting his eyes checked out after the playoffs, he obviously had some blind spots). Out of his pads, Willy sauntered over to Kappy, settling into his lap, and proceeded to snog the living daylights out of him. The team didn’t even bother to react with more than a few catcalls when Kappy’s hands wandered a bit too low for public decency, all too high on the win. Besides, Mo was too distracted by Jake to really take much notice of that display. Jake, who had been looking at him since he had netted the PPG in second. Sure enough, in the jubilations he got an armful of happy, slightly damp Jake, fresh out of the shower, all flushed and bright and so beautiful Mo’s heart hurt. He sank into the hug, and didn’t let go for a long, long, while. He knew Freddie was looking at him, he could feel it, but he ignored it. If his goalie had something to say he could do it tomorrow on the plane.  
When Jake pulled away, Mo felt cold. They had to get dressed and go back to the hotel, he knew, but…this had been so nice. Then, he felt a kiss being pressed against his cheek, warm and lingering. His eyes flew open, but Jake was already retreating to his stall, pointedly busy with buttoning up his shirt. By this point, Freddies eyebrows had climbed up higher than Mo had ever seen them. He reached up, hand shaking slightly, and touched his cheek. It felt warm. He felt a bit like his world was spinning, even though that had not been the first time a friend (or Jake, even) had kissed him. He had hazy memories of warm lips against his, tasting of alcohol, way back when in his rookie season, a game of truth or dare in a hotel room. Freddie pointedly looked at him, still, and turned away, finally, reaching out to Brownie, very, very deliberately, as if to make a point…oh. _Oh!_ Shit. Mo sat down again, suddenly feeling a bit dizzy. Shit, shit, _shit_ . He was in love with his best friend.

 

\-----

 

After his very inconvenient realisation, Mo tried to forget about it as best he could, but...well. Kind of hard to ignore. But mostly, he was exhausted. Giddy, happy, confused, and exhausted. And they had to do post-games as well. But then, they were homebound again. Back at the hotel, they just crashed into Jake’s bed (this was becoming a habit) and immediately dropped off into a deep sleep. And then, they were cruelly awoken the next morning by their alarms. Well. Jake was. Mo had woken up even before the alarm and laid there, fidgety, until he eventually just thought _fuck it_ and got up at around an hour before the wake up calls would start. He scribbled a note to Jake and slipped out of the room, walking down the hall until he found Freddie’s room and knocked. Had he been a bit more coherent he might have been concerned he was about to get murdered by a disgruntled goalie who was not the best in the morning on good days, but. He wasn’t exactly thinking. And then, there he was, all tall and with his hair sticking up. Freddie just looked at Mo, expression unreadable, before he turned around and ventured back into his room, the door left ajar. Mo took that as the invitation it was and followed. Inside, he found his goalie...making coffee? Had he -- okay, so apparently his goalie travelled with some sort of coffee maker. Freddie looked up, shrugged, and continued fixing his mug. “Aeropress,” he said. That was not exactly informative to Mo, but then he knew nothing about the finer things in life, apparently. A head popped up from the bed then, startling Mo. Freddie walked over, sliding his hand into red, red hair and bent down, murmuring something in what was probably Danish before sitting on the edge of the mattress, gesturing for Mo to take the chair. Okay then. Trying not to stare at where Brownie’s head seemed to migrate into Freddie’s lap, he collected himself, and began.

 “So, I like Jake.” Silence. He glanced up, seeing the _no shit_ expression on two faces, even though one was slightly marred by bleary eyes. He looked away again. “I know now what you meant, I think. But, I. Jake is...He’s not. He doesn’t feel the same way? He can’t. He’s straight, I think, and he would have said, right? He... _fuck._ I don’t know, okay?” More blank stares. Then, a sigh. Surprisingly it was Brownie who answered. “What makes you so sure he doesn’t like you back, Mo?” And so, he explained. How he had seen Jake with girls (that one got shot down real quick. He knows, okay. It’s a spectrum and all that. He’s never seen him with guys, is the point.) How, yeah, they made out once at a party his rookie year, way back when, but, everyone did that at some point, right? Especially in Juniors or college. He’s heard the stories about Jo and Nate up in Halifax. How he didn’t even realise himself until yesterday. How...how he loves Jake a lot, actually. And how he doesn’t know what do now.

The two of them are actually helpful in a way. They try to gently steer him towards accepting that his situation isn’t as hopeless as he thinks, but, it’s Jake. Mo wants him any way he can get him. Being his best friend is not _lesser_ in any way ( _that’s not what we said, mo)._ He does feel more calm by the time they have to get ready for breakfast. He’s calm, he’s talked about it with some of the most responsible adults he has on his team, and he’s aching from all the easy affection he was witness to. He’s very aware that it was deliberate. A pointed gesture mixed with trust. He left them to it, both deep into their fancy cups of coffee, and returned to his room.

He almost walked back out. Sleepy Jake is one of his favourites, and post realisation it’s almost too much to handle. Still, he closed the door behind himself and disappeared into the bathroom before slipping into his suit. He suddenly wished for a hoodie to snuggle into. Alas. Next to him, Jake was still slightly rumpled, hair in disarray and fumbling with his tie and Mo’s fingers itched to help him. He turned away.

 

\----

 

Game three was a blur. They got down by two and then they just kept going. Aus fired off a beauty off of Mo’s pass, and then they went to overtime, again, and they won, they won, and they’re leading the series and Mo was sufficiently distracted by the resulting pseudo party (kind of.) Until...well. The kisses were becoming routine now. After every game. Through celebration after game three, the loss in game four, and all the rest. After game three, they cooked together. (Well, they warmed up the food they had been given. Some of the wives and girlfriends and mothers had banded together to make meals for the single guys for playoffs. There may have been stern warnings that they were expected to finally learn to cook this offseason. There were going to be exams. Crash courses were offered. If he were being honest, Mo was a bit scared) and then they crashed into Jake’s bed and were out in minutes. After practice the next day, Mo called his Mom. He generally told his mom everything, so he told her about Jake and she did not react like he thought she would. Namely, she had apparently been under the impression that he and Jake were dating. Had been for years. And so, he corrected her, he explained, and then he locked himself in his room for a little while. Just to get his traitorous brain to calm down again. Be quiet. Not conjure up images of Jake in all situations ever. He woke up with a terrible headache and the day did not get better from there.

 

\-----

 

They lost. It’s tied up, but they lost. They got so close, and they tried, they tried, and they’re still in it, but it stung. It’s the first game where they did not manage to force OT, and it’s their worst one yet. The locker room was not as sad as it could have been, but it always sucked to lose at home, and this is the playoffs and… it’s not good. He still got the kiss on the cheek, and it was almost enough to soothe the hurt but it created a whole new ache. Mo wished he had stayed ignorant.

Being around Jake was the same as it always had been, really. Mo had the ache still, but it’s not any different than before otherwise. Freddie continued to shoot him glances, but the series was getting hectic and they’re all distracted. He did notice Naz being less smirky than before though. When they’re celebrating after game five, back in Washington, Naz saw the way Mo had to turn away after the kiss to school his expression and he was concerned, Mo could tell. And he was not the only one. On the plane, Brownie gave him half of a homemade cookie before returning to his seat, and Mo just stared at it. It was perfectly golden and smelled of cinnamon and love and it tasted like devotion. Mo appreciated the gesture, and it warmed him a bit, to have such good friends, but it was double edged like most things seemed to be now and it hurt a bit. Still, he savoured it, and took a nap with the taste lingering in his mouth and heart and he woke up with his face smushed into Jake’s neck and it’s almost okay. They just won a game, and it was still surreal.

 

\-----

 

And then, it was over. They lost, they were out, out, out, the season is done, and Mo was so so proud of his team and what they accomplished but he also felt a little like he couldn’t breathe. He knew it was everything catching up with him but he didn’t know if he could handle this now. He managed a small speech, just barely, and left the rest to Babs. He would talk to his team tomorrow, there were strict instructions for breakfast the next day, and god, then there would be locker clean out and the room was spinning. _Shit._ For a second, Mo didn’t know where was up and where was down. Then, he felt hands on his shoulders. Jake, Jake, Jake. He latched on, leaning his head on his friends abdomen. He allowed himself a minute, to get his bearings back together, and then looked up. Jake looked so worried, in a way Mo never wanted to see again. He had to get it together again, for Jake, for his team. And so, he nodded, stood up, and got back to undressing. It was an eerie mirror of the way they all had been before they clinched, only upside down because this time it was Jake taking care of him, not the other way around. Jake helping him out of his pads, sticking close, always within touching distance. Mo knew the other pairs were back in their own orbit as well, and when he looked over on the way to the showers, he saw that Brownie was in Freddies lap again, both of them tightly holding onto each other. The goalie looked devastated, focused on his boyfriend who had hidden his face in Freddie’s neck, one hand clenched in his hair. Mo turned away.

 On the way out, he took Jake’s hand. He was so tired, he couldn’t bring himself to care what it looked like, what his face would reveal. The drive back was silent, and Jake kept a hand on Mo’s knee. Back home, they bypassed the couch and walked straight into Jake’s room. If asked, Mo couldn’t tell you who reached out first, but oh, it was like the only thing that could keep him warm was beautiful, beautiful Jake, whose lips were so so soft on his, and his hands, so careful when undressing him, were soothing like balm on an open wound. That night, they fell into bed together for real for the first time, always touching, touching, clinging to each other, and Mo fell apart under Jake and then was put together again, held until the shaking subsided and all he could feel was calm. He knew, in the back of his mind, he knew they would have to talk. But it could wait until daylight, until they could stand to speak again, letting go without feeling they would disintegrate into nothing. He was held, held, held, and let sleep take him for good.

 

\----

 

The next morning, Mo woke up feeling like he had gotten under a truck, but ultimately satisfied. When he turned around, there was Jake, looking at him with hooded eyes and handing him a cup of coffee, perfect and hot like always. The drink was wonderful as well. They leaned against each other, basking in the low sunlight, until their cups were half drained, and then, by mutual understanding, got up and dressed. Some conversations were best held dressed. And then, finally, they talked, each telling their side of the story. Mo went first, explaining how it had taken him so long to understand, to see, how he was not sure his affections were returned. Because he knew Jake, knew he was slower than him sometimes, that if he was aware, Jake had to be. And he had been right. Jake explained, gently and a bit guiltily. Explained how he had recognised his crush on Mo early, couldn’t ignore it anymore after they had kissed. But, he had known Mo was unaware, wasn’t sure if Mo was even out to himself, and had forced himself to look away. It stayed though, this feeling, and it grew over time, but Jake had been afraid. He had seen the tragedy that had been Bozie and Phil, how it affected them. And so, he did nothing about the way Mo looked at him, more and more adoringly as time passed, living and playing together. But then, other relationships grew. He saw them evolve, saw them be strong and healthy and unshakeable. And so, his resolve was not the same as it had once been. And then Mo’s looks got more intense, and more knowing, and a little afraid, and Jake was tired, so tired of holding back, of measuring out affection, always trying not to cross the line. And Mo had taken care of him when he couldn’t hold himself together, and he had started the tradition of the cheek kisses, even though it hurt and helped in equal measures. And then, they were out of the playoffs, and Jake couldn’t help himself, Mo so sad and looking at him like he was his whole world, and Jake knew that this could work, would work, had been working, and there they were now, offering their hearts up on a platter and hoping they could be caught.

 

_Epilogue_

 

When Mo and Jake walked into the room for locker cleanout hand in hand, with tired smiles on their faces, there weren’t even whistles or chatter. They just got claps on the back, congratulations given quiet and sincere, and they all got to work, still a bit raw, yet satisfied with their accomplishments. They had come far, farther than anyone had given them the credit for, and they would go into the offseason sore and sad and happy and looking forward to the next year. After the interviews were done, there were hugs to be had, plans to meet up and train to be made. Mo and Jake both got long hugs from their resident gingers, Freddie giving them looks that clearly said he was proud of them. Mo gave his speech, finally, and they went out to brunch, all of them together, with family and significant others, and then, then, they went home, and packed, and went to bed together again. They would visit, during the summer, come home to each other, warmly welcomed by parents with knowing smiles and warm embraces, and they would come back to Toronto summer, slow and strong, to their team, to a captaincy and an all new season, bright and happy and so, so, _good._ After all their hardships, losses and successes, they were settled and ready. Ready for all that could be thrown at them. And one day, one day, not too long into the future, they would bring Stanley home again, again, finally back where he belonged, and later, much later, they would bring home another miracle, much smaller and yet so much bigger. And they were lost, and found, and bright. And all was well.

 


End file.
